


Waistcoats! or, Life Before the Passage

by sadsparties



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prequel, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23001730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: Commander James Fitzjames of the Royal Navy is the Best Man that a best friend could ever ask for. A chance meeting forces him to share his arctic expedition duties with one Captain Francis R. M. Crozier, and perhaps other duties as well.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Lady Ann Ross/Sir James Clark Ross, Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte/Original Character
Comments: 135
Kudos: 173





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If I was rich enough to hire a plane to write words in the sky, I would have it write "thank u icicaille on ao3 u r da best".

James Fitzjames prided himself on being an efficient traveler. As an alumnus of the godforsaken, thrice-damned, utterly regrettable Euphrates expedition, James thought that he rather qualified as the most accomplished logistics officer in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. He had helped transport entire ships’ hulls through mountains, piles of coal across rivers, bags of mail through dangerous and unknown territory. But for some reason, on the third day of the third week of January 1845, he could not manage to transport himself across London.

James Fitzjames stood on the corner of Parkhill and Hurst Lanes and tried to hail himself a carriage. He made a very pretty picture, if he did say so himself. His hair was delicately curled, and the brass buttons on his dress uniform shone with a confident gleam—he was the image of an exemplary British officer.

Which was truly unfortunate, as these qualities were absolutely useless in trying to get a cab.

James had been waving his arms about in a most deprecating way for all of half an hour when a landau stopped in front of him. He could see that the vehicle was occupied, with its topside fastened with chests and other such equipment. When the coachman resurfaced from conferring with the passenger, the curtain opened to reveal a portly old man with fair hair.

“Do you need a ride, Commander?” the passenger said, and James Fitzjames, sweating from the morning heat and desperate as a penguin being chased by a leopard seal, produced an enchanting smile, very enchanting indeed. “I would be much obliged, sir.” 

Some voice at the back of James’s mind wondered how exactly the stranger knew his rank. His attire certainly placed him as such, but the complicated system of buttons, sleeves, and epaulettes known as the Royal Navy uniform was not something that a civilian would be familiar with. For now, James effusively thanked this good samaritan and asked where he was headed before he so graciously took James in.

“Where might I ask were you headed before you so graciously took me in?”

The man mulled over this simple question, and James took the time to observe him properly. He was not so portly, as James had initially thought, but his cheeks had a heft to them that reminded James of month-old babies. His blue traveling coat was four seasons out of fashion, and it immediately put to James’s mind that he could not have afforded the landau. Perhaps he was a manservant recently arrived in the city. Such members of the household help, especially of certain ages, were fortunate enough to have magnanimous employers. “I’ve recently arrived from Paris and am on my way to Blackheath,” the man said. “You?”

“To Darlington Hall. And Kenton Gardens.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes, I am attending two weddings, you see.”

“A double wedding.”

“No, no, two weddings.”

The man mulled over this some more and asked, “Simultaneously?” 

“Precisely, sir.”

At this, the man arched his left brow to a considerable height, a considerable height indeed, and regarded James bemusedly. “If I were invited to two weddings, I would simply accept one and politely decline the other. You overexert yourself, I think.”

“Ah.” James smoothly brushed off the barb. “But when one is the Best Man and Primary Organizer of both weddings, I rather think it is imperative to make an appearance on both. If not to prevent the grooms from passing out, then to at least enjoy the result of one’s efforts for the past month or so. This has taken up as much as half of my hours and I ought to see it through to the end, yes?” 

James thought that this was a rather dignified reply, and it made him sound generous and fastidious which was most important. But instead of being impressed, the stranger pressed his lips together in what would seem like an expression of restrained vexation. He grunted, a gruff sound that tempered the smile on James’s lips, and that was that.

They continued the rest of the journey in silence, and when the carriage slowed to a stop in front of Darlington Hall, James alighted and turned to face his rescuer one last time. “Thank you again for your generosity, Mr…?” The man gave a brusque nod, as if wanting nothing more than to end their acquaintance, then turned to give instructions to the coachman.

James had shrugged and turned away when he caught the tail end of the coachman’s reply. “Will do, Captain Crozier.”

Suffice it to say that James Fitzjames spent the rest of the day on the verge of hysteria. Charlewood noted his pale face when he met him at the groom's lounge, and even the new Mr. and Mrs. Coningham took him aside during a lull in the reception. “Are you quite all right, Jim?” Lizzie had asked, to which Will added, “You look as if you’ve just lost out on the Ross voyage again.” This was an unintentionally cruel yet accurate joke on their part, but James saw fit to reassure them of his health.

It was not as if he could actually be demoted, but there was a small possibility, only very small, that Sir John Barrow would regret James’s appointment to the latest arctic expedition, should one Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, FRS, FRAS whisper in his ear about James’s preoccupations. If parlour talk was to be believed, Crozier had been quite cross when he received his orders. The responsibility to fit out the ships and recruit its crew had fallen to James, but if Barrow had gotten the impression that James was not as devoted to his duties, he might be of the mind to rescind them entirely. Then James would have to ply Dundy with earl grey macarons before letting him know that his services as Best Man would have to be forced on another.

The solution to this dilemma was clear: Crozier had to be convinced to keep his mouth shut.

As it turned out, James was gifted at making people do what he wanted. He had fooled no less than four senior officers in order to be promoted to a midshipman, so one junior captain approaching his retirement years ought to submit to his wiles easily enough. 

The next time that James Fitzjames met Francis Crozier, it was during the intermission of a grand production at the West End. The crowd had given the arctic veterans a resounding applause, and James determined to catch Crozier’s eye as he waved sheepishly to the crowd.

“Captain Crozier,” he greeted him when they met at the refreshments table. “Commander Fitzjames,” Crozier said. Crozier seemed a different man in his dress uniform. His hair rendered almost gold in the theatre hall’s lighting, and he stood like a man ready to give out commands from the quarterdeck. He carried a reserved but distinguished air, and James could not help but be impressed. 

James was confident that he would be able to refer to their previous encounter without having to spell out the specific circumstances, and from there, convince Crozier to forget it ever happened, to let this be their actual introduction. “You had me at a disadvantage last we met,” he began. “I can only apologize that I did not know whom I had the privilege of speaking to at the time.”

Crozier regarded him with piercing blue eyes. He took a long drink from his cutglass before saying, “I hope none of your grooms passed out.” 

Bleeding hell.

“Might we speak privately, sir?” James said. He gestured to an enclosure between the food tables that was partly concealed by potted plants, and after a brief moment, Crozier led the way. As they approached the nest of privacy, James went through the five or so major points of his diatribe. He had gone over them with Dundy the week prior, and they made sure that the arguments were as tight as compressed guanos on a flat island. 

“Make clear that you intend to have a harmonious relationship,” Dundy had said over a cup of alarmingly red strawberry tea. “Being a captain, he will understand that amiable relations between ships are important and that you do not wish to sow discord ahead of setting out.” James had agreed, and they spent the better part of an afternoon refining his points.

When they reached the enclosure, Crozier whipped round to him and said, “Friday next.” 

“Pardon?”

Crozier looked at him pointedly and said, slowly, like speaking to a child, “A week from now, on Friday, we will go to Woolwich and see how they are getting on with fitting the steam engines to the ships. And then after that, we will discuss the muster roll—the names I’ve been hearing are a serious cause of concern.” James felt his jaw go slack. “I understand that you have friends, Fitzjames, and you don’t want them languishing in half-pay, but we can’t have a majority of the officers as arctic virgins. If you let me review the list, I am sure I can give you much better candidates. They will be seasoned men and will not cower at the first sign of a gale, and, most importantly, they will know how to sight a cloud from a berg. And in return—” here Crozier smiled, and the sight of his devilish grin sent a shudder through James—“in return I will keep my mouth shut.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Francis Crozier was all too aware that he had no ear for politics. He had no patience for theatrics, had never dreamed of holding office, and the only instance wherein he had successfully negotiated for anything was the cost of Terror’s heating system. Francis knew that this recent success with James Fitzjames was but a fluke, and if he did not keep on his toes, he was sure that James would somehow turn the tables. 

“And as you see, sirs, she’ll fare well even with months in the cold. We haven’t banked her with coal yet but the stokers are giving her kisses with the oil can.”

Francis had taken an early cab to Woolwich, to enjoy the morning air as much as to beat James to the docks, and from the cab’s stumbling seat he had sighted the holds of Terror and Erebus under reconstruction. Their bellies were exposed to the sky, the steam engines hovering ominously as they were fitted to the ships. It looked eerily like the wreck of the Fury that his sailor’s alarm bells went ringing.

“Good news, indeed, Mr. Gregory. Do you think she will be ready with the trial runs in two months?” James said. His manner was as gratingly chirpy as when they first met, and if Francis were in a fouler mood, he would think it on purpose. 

“How do you find her, Captain?” asked the balmy, young lad beside Mr. Gregory, but before Francis could answer, James let out a chuckle. “You will have to forgive the captain’s silence, Mr. Torrington, as he is hardly well-acquainted with steam engines. They are formidable and finicky creatures, as I can attest with my time with Colonel Chesney, and the captain might find himself a little overwhelmed with the scarcity of his knowledge on the matter.” 

Francis scowled just as Mr. Torrington exclaimed an excited _oh_. “We’ll put it to rights, captain; you need not worry,” he assured them. “Me and Jim Hart won’t be leaving the hold if we have to. And we won’t even be cold, what with the heat from the coal and the steam. Beg pardon, sir, but we didn’t really expect you to know anything about the engines.”

“The stokers are passionate at least,” James drawled as their carriage jolted forward. “I hope you weren’t offended.”

Francis merely answered with a grunt. James was not yet familiar with Francis’s grunts, but in time he would learn that the one he had just made meant ‘You are a menace. Do not speak to me for at least three hours.’ 

“You can drop me off at Charlton and I’ll be on my way,” he growled. Francis thought that he would rather walk all the way to Blackheath than spend another cab ride with James Fitzjames. “Nonsense,” James said. “There is an establishment nearby that I’ve been meaning to consult regarding our food stores, and your expertise on the matter would be greatly appreciated.” 

At this, Francis straightened. “I’ve heard nothing amiss about our food stores.”

“Oh, nothing that would cause worry.” James waved his hand casually. “I merely have to make a minor decision on the menu.”

The minor decision, it turned out, was the future Le Vescontes’ wedding cake.

“What in hell—” Francis exclaimed as a server wheeled in a cart of cake slices. The cart had two levels: the bottom level having eight small plates or so, tastefully arranged in neat rows, while the upper level supported a three-tier tower of cake slices of different colors. At the very top—Francis squinted—was a pair of figurines, one of which looked impressively similar to the visage of Lieutenant Henry Thomas Dundas Le Vesconte. 

“James, what the hell is going on?”

James merely selected a sugary, yellow number with a red berry on top and devoured it in a bite. He flushed it down with a sip of tea and cleared his throat. “The way I see it, Frank—”

“Don’t call me Frank.”

“—is that if you will insist on imposing yourself on my duties as the captain of the flagship, then you will simply have to impose yourself on my other duties. Mind you, before you played your card in the theatre, I had already planned on clearing the misunderstanding that you’d so clearly had when you coldly left me in front of Darlington Hall.”

Francis blinked.

“I mentioned to you that wedding planning takes up as much as half of my time: that is true. I neglected to mention, and wouldn’t have, seeing as I did not know you then, that the other half of my time is taken up by preparing the ships and recruiting volunteers to man them. I haven’t neglected it at all, as I’m sure you assumed. But if you are to help me in one regard, you can help me in the other, and in that way we can both go about more speedily than if I were to work by myself.”

“What?” Francis said.

James sighed, exasperated. With a pair of tongs, he gingerly took a slice of moist chocolate cake from the tower and laid it on Francis’s plate. “Help me pick a flavour.” 

Sometime on his third slice, Francis asked, “Shouldn’t this be something left to the bride and her relations?”

James hummed from the notebook he was marking, carefully tallying the score of the caramel custard’s consistency. “Sara is a lovely woman and I can attest that her treacle pies are second to none in all of Europe,” he said. “But she is much too critical when it comes to baked goods. Bless her, but I do not think that her being confronted with twenty different cakes that she can easily make herself and would, likely, criticize to kingdom come, would achieve anything beyond frustrating our proprietress over there.”

Francis eyed the proprietress behind the counter and she gave him a reassuring smile.

“Besides, I rather think I have enough experience in this matter.” Francis took little sips of his tea. “How many times have you been Best Man, exactly?”

“Oh, I would say twenty-seven times now.”

Francis almost choked on his tea. 

James grinned. “I am very good, and the brides love me.”

“Excuse me, sirs.”

At some point while Francis was preventing himself from spraying fine, earl grey tea everywhere, the proprietress had approached their table. She was a strikingly tall woman, her lined face marking her years, but in her eyes was an uncanny spark that belayed her intelligence. “Might I shake your hand, sirs?” she said. “Me and my boy are ardent admirers of your work.”

“Oh,” James cried, delighted. He rose to his full commander’s height, looking like a man who regularly indulged members of the public with his attention. James held out a hand, upon which the proprietress seized it with both of her own so fiercely that James almost lost his balance.

“When I heard that two navy men were in my shop, I had a feeling it would be you, sirs,” the woman said. “A James and a Francis—me and my Jack read all about you from the papers. Goodness me, if only he were here and not on his schooner. I can’t wait to write to him that I’ve had the pleasure of shaking the hand of Sir James Clark Ross!”

Francis most assuredly choked on his tea.

“Did you really see penguins, sir? And more than one kind! And that ice wall climbing higher than your own ships!”

Were Francis a lesser man, he would have keeled over entirely, but as it was, he merely turned away and wheezed in silence unto his clenched hand. He could sense James glaring daggers at him, but the threat of James’s ire was incomparable to the persistent bout of giggles that threatened to overcome him.

James had devolved from thinly veiled panic to a fit of sputtering when Francis took a hold of himself and keened, “Aye, Captain Ross, tell her about the penguins!”

“Was it the one with the grey babes, sir? Or the one with fierce-looking eyes?”

“Tell her how it pecked you as you planted the flag—”

“The grey chicks are rather charming, aren’t they, sir? We could tell just from the woodprints.”

“Right at your backside was it, Ross?”

“But those small ones with round eyes… why, they look ready for a brawl, don’t they?”

“Madam!” James yelped. He gently but firmly extricated himself from the proprietress, then placed his hands on her shoulders. “I’m certain Captain Crozier here would be delighted to answer your questions,” he said, wholly desperate. “He is infinitely more a scientist than I.”

Later, after several stories from the southern regions had been extracted from Francis, the proprietress left to replace their cold tea. “I’m surprised you didn’t just tell her the truth,” Francis said as he set about selecting his next cake slice.

“To what end?” James said. He leaned back on his chair and steepled his fingers over his stomach, looking like a workman at the end of an exhausting day. “She was clearly overjoyed at meeting a hero of hers, and I hadn’t the heart to shatter her illusions. Besides, I could bluff my way through it once you went on a roll. Did you really sail between two icebergs?”

Francis nodded. “I suppose it is much like charming a crowd—when you mislead someone, but with good intentions.”

James hummed and sat up. “It’s not deception to me, Francis, merely,” he shrugged, “playing a part, saying the right thing required of you at the right time. A display, to be sure, but it is its own kind of captainship, is it not?”

James was right, as he occasionally was. Francis had no ear for politics, but he was a captain who looked out for his men, a father to them in times of fear, and a commander in times of mutiny. In this regard, Francis had played many parts, at sea or not, and he began to wonder if James Fitzjames had played many more roles than he was letting on.

Francis took up his fork and tore into the last of the lemon cakes. A spot of cream stuck on his upper lip. He swiped it to his mouth with a thumb and looked up to see James eyeing the motion curiously, very curiously indeed.

“What?” he asked.

James blinked and began to studiously go over his notebook. “Nothing,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, have you _seen_ an [adelie penguin?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7PlUGbsXlQ) It looks like it will kill you in your sleep and steal your girl.


	3. Chapter 3

One need only to look but once at Francis Crozier to know that he was not a fashionable man. His sea-stained traveling coat was four years old, the sleeves of his shirt had ill-concealed frays, and his silver watch had been scuffed so thoroughly to render the original inscription illegible. Francis Crozier was the kind of man who believed that all shades of blue were much the same, and if asked he would not know the difference between a dress and a pelisse.

Suffice it to say that in the private fitting room of Stevens & Sons Bespoke Tailors, Francis was a whale out of water.

He ran a hand down his face. “Run it by me again, will you?”

James Fitzjames stood on a platform and finished off buttoning the flaps of a brown waistcoat with gold stripes and beading. “Sara has asked me to choose a motif,” he said. “Rather than choosing from an album and finding a waistcoat to match, like I have done in previous weddings, I have surmised that it is better to find a suitable waistcoat and match the entire wedding to my taste. How’s the tea?”

“Grand,” Francis said, though the steaming brew before him was the last thing on his mind. “You told me that we were going to Goldner’s factory.”

“We were—I did not deceive you on that account. But Sir John had a thought this morning that he would do the inspection himself. It was mere chance that he sent me a note, or we would have found ourselves in his company at the factory, and that would not have boded well for either of us.” James twisted to his side and studied himself in the mirror. “Do you mind?”

Francis let out a petulant huff. Even so, he abandoned his tea and stepped onto the platform, reaching out to tighten the buckle at the back of the vest. The fabric clung to James’s shapely frame.

“It’s unfortunate that you couldn’t accompany me yesterday,” James said. “When was the last time you were in Surrey?” 

“What’s in Surrey?”

At this, James turned around and gave a dreamy smile, very dreamy indeed. “Oh, Francis, you should have seen it! There is a gentleman newly moved in to Pendleton Manor in Surrey, and he is open to letting it for functions at a reasonable price. He is quite the eccentric, though, and would not let me meet him on my first visit, though he did allow me to take a look about the grounds. It was, and I do not say this lightly, Francis, delightful. There was a garden walled in with hedges, and on the northwest corner was a sandstone monument with a seventeen-foot pedestal. A perfect venue for the wedding, I should say!”

Francis shifted on his feet. Sometime during his impassioned speech, James Fitzjames had taken Francis by the elbows and submitted him to the full force of his radiant smile. Francis thought that had he not looked away, he might have gone snowblind. “Erm... right,” he muttered, then stepped down from the platform and resumed his seat.

When he had recovered himself, Francis ventured, “We ought to still inspect those tins, after Sir John.”

James paused from inspecting his own backside. “This matters because?”

Francis scrunched his nose in concentration. The thought had been needling at him ever since Sir John mentioned that the contract had been awarded at an impressively low price. “It matters as any rigging of a ship matters,” he said, “and as captains, we must master everything about our domain. Livestock, we can examine for health; the salt meats, I can entrust to the cooks; but neither you, I, nor Sir John can attest to having intimate knowledge on how canned provisions work, and should we encounter difficulties with it during the voyage, we will have no one to turn to but the caulkers.”

James had stripped off the gold number and was holding up a deep red evening vest. The lapels were peaked, a curious choice, and were adorned with a trail of tiny, embroidered bees that ran from the edges of the collar down to the flaps. “So this is to be a learning trip then?” James said. “A personal lesson on tin sealing from Mr. Goldner himself.”

Francis shrugged. “If you wish. But it would be best if we came unannounced.”

James mulled over this as he turned his attention to a cream waistcoat with green appliques. “I suppose if we finish that business in the morning, we can head out to the chandlery in the afternoon.” That smile again. “Have you ever seen hand-painted candles, Francis? They’re all the rage lately.”

Francis audibly sighed and resigned himself to his fate. It was a small price to pay for enjoying James’s cooperation. He had expected them to be at cross-purposes, but when it had become plain that James took to his duties as fiercely as he did to his, admittedly, odd preoccupation, they had gotten along decently enough, although it was not without its frustrations. Francis mused that if James only stopped with his bragging and talking like that poncy way he did, they would be better friends. 

“The red one,” Francis pointed. James grinned and lifted the red waistcoat from its hanger.

Once the tailor’s apprentice had taken James’s measurements, they removed themselves to the shop’s parlour, where there was a plate of assorted biscuits waiting for them. “How is it that Lieutenant Le Vesconte is even marrying so close to the expedition?” Francis asked. “Won’t he want to spend time with his new wife?”

“Hmmm, I’ve mentioned as much to Dundy, but he is a superstitious wretch and wants to marry before he goes off to a mysterious land.” James selected a powdered biscuit with suspiciously pink cream filling. “Although _entre nous_ , I think he is more concerned of the weather and worries that his man parts will suffer from the cold before he can use it as God intended. Never been to the Arctic, as you know.”

Francis gave a grunt, a rough sound that meant ‘That’s utter bollocks’. 

“And you?” he said. “Do you have a wife, or a sweetheart hidden away somewhere? I only ask because you are, well…”

“I am what, Francis?”

“You are,” Francis forced the heat behind his ears to wane, “not unappealing.”

“Oh dear, are you complimenting me?!” James beamed. He leaned dangerously close across the table and whispered, “Had I known that all it would take to get into your good graces was to remove a bit of my kit, I would have done so weeks ago.”

In his dark days, Francis Crozier wished he could rid himself of his Irish blood. It would forever mark him of his lower breeding, his station, and his tendency to anger, but at this very moment he merely wished that it did not make him blush so easily. He remained motionless as James studied him, intense and eager, like a southern giant petrel marking a dying animal. 

An odd thought to have whilst one’s co-officer was mere inches away, but to Francis’s credit, his mental faculties were not wholly present. 

Seemingly satisfied with his examination, James leaned back and bit the biscuit in half. “To answer your question, no, I have not a wife and do not want a sweetheart.” 

A bit of powder smeared the corner of his mouth. “You have a…”

James wiped the wrong corner of his mouth. “No, uh. Here…” 

Later that day, Francis would marvel at his own stupidity. He was a distinguished scientist, navigator, and captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, but when he reached out to wipe his thumb at the spot of powder on James Fitzjames’s upper lip, it was as if all intelligence left him entire. James startled, and at the motion, Francis’s thumb slipped between his lips, to where his breath streamed damp and warm. 

“Francis?”

Francis abruptly straightened like a ship’s boy caught palming himself at the orlop. He snapped his head towards the familiar voice. 

Sophia stood behind him, come out of nowhere and looking as lovely as ever.

And trailing behind her, Sir John and Lady Jane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, oh shit.
> 
>   * A note on all these places I’ve been mentioning: Darlington Hall, Kenton Gardens, Stevens & Sons Tailors all don’t exist. They were named after characters in [“The Remains of the Day”](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/28921.The_Remains_of_the_Day?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=d6W47HZ871&rank=1) by Kazuo Ishiguro, which I was reading while writing this fic.
>   * Pendleton Manor is named after a character from [“Daddy Long Legs”](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLt2hAZSBj4ODU3MYsowi9oVoAAcoibB6m), whose OOBC recording I was listening to while writing this fic. Do give both of them a read/listen. It was the tone I was trying to capture.
>   * “Sandstone monument with a 17ft. pedestal” is a reference to FRMC’s memorial statue in Banbridge.
>   * Goldner’s factory is not actually in London. The tins were shipped from Romania (I think). But ssshhhh just revel in the fantasy, ok?
>   * [Peaked lapels](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1Zp1fQFXXXXaLXXXXq6xXFXXXQ/2017-Latest-Coat-Pant-Design-Ivory-Beige-Vest-Double-Breasted-Vests-Peaked-Lapel-Waistcoat-Slim-Fit.jpg), vs. Francis’s standard [notched](https://laissezferre.tumblr.com/post/611488967230144512/ignores-the-terrible-no-good-very-bad-context)
>   * Bees are part of FRMC’s [coat-of-arms](https://tttack.tumblr.com/post/190184852204).
> 



	4. Chapter 4

At this point in the juncture it is necessary to spare a few words for the Franklins, in order to paint them in the light that they so rightly deserve as one of London’s distinguished resident families, to say nothing of their demise and hasty exit from Hobart.

Sir John Franklin was born in Spilsby, Lincolnshire to a line of gentlemen merchants and farmers. He was a pious and benevolent man, upright in his morals and staunch in his beliefs, however misguided they were. In his younger days, his name had headlined the city papers as a hero of great bravery and fortitude. The intervening years were as much a mystery as they were proof that fate moved in inscrutable ways, and by the time Francis met Sir John in Van Diemen’s Land, he had been reduced to an obscure colonial puppet, ill-suited to his post, and stowing in the hate of his own populace. Sir John was a kind and religious man, whom many people liked if not respected.

In 1828, he married his second wife Lady Jane Franklin, née Griffin of 21 Bedford Place, London. Lady Jane belonged to that peculiar band of women who involved themselves in philanthropy and public policy. She favored men of science, was fond of travel, and expressed her liberal views with an assuredness that further maligned her to the citizens of Hobart. Such a departure she was from their deeply rooted notions of a wife of a public figure, that when Sir John’s enemies finally tilted the board to their advantage, they were only too happy to see her chess piece fall.

Francis was not at all certain that Sir John and Lady Jane held a genuine regard for each other. They seemed to have declared each other as their eternal companions by sheer virtue of close proximity at a trying time. Their marriage was not the sort to inspire others to follow suit, which, Francis thought, could have been the reason for Sophia’s unwillingness to subject herself to it.

Miss Sophia Cracroft was the daughter of a gentleman farmer, Mr. Thomas Cracroft, and Sir John’s beloved sister, Isabella. By some unfortunate tragedy that occurred in her ninth year, Sophia was taken into Sir John’s household, where she became Lady Jane’s companion and assistant. Sophia was a woman known to be keen in her observations, good in spirit, and by all accounts, sound, both in her judgments and in her chosen path in life. Bestowed with an intelligence and sharpness of mind, Sophia molded herself into the shape of the gap in the Franklins’ marriage that could only be filled by a beloved child.

Such was the melange of persons who convened in the parlour of Stevens & Sons Bespoke Tailors. 

Francis thought that he was a very good man for a crisis, level-headed and resolute, and able to navigate his way through the worst of the Antarctic weather, but nothing had prepared him for having the Franklin household walk in on him caressing James Fitzjames’s lips. 

“Sir John,” he heard James say. Francis himself was still in a slightly catatonic state, but James had risen from his seat and greeted the family.

“James! And Francis! This is a surprise.” Sir John released Lady Jane’s arm and regarded them both, as if he was an esteemed nobleman having to choose between two dog breeds to take to the races. “I was unaware that you were well-acquainted with each other. And to be at the tailor’s, no less.”

“Rightly so, Sir John,” James said, elated, as if a full crisis was not at hand. “Francis and I are now becoming intimate friends. But I regret to admit that we are here on ‘official business’, on a matter regarding the upcoming expedition.”

“Official business, you say?”

Francis stood from his seat and composed himself, pride at the ready should Sir John admonish him for meddling in James’s affairs. He would not blame James if he told the truth now, would fully expect it even, if he were to absolve himself from their arrangement and lay Francis out like an offering.

“Indeed, sir. As you know, my postings have mostly been to the East, and so I have never had cause to dress for the winter.” James darted a smile at Francis as if they were the best of chums. “Francis here has so graciously volunteered to assist me in the matter of my winter wardrobe, and as soon as our schedules allowed, we immediately set out to procure myself a full set. Although I am very glad that you arrived now and not earlier. Otherwise you would have seen me sweltering in full regalia whilst Francis tried not to laugh.”

As James most probably intended, this incited a round of soft laughter from the ladies. Some part of Francis marveled at this ease of conversation, at how naturally James took to playing his part, to that well-meaning deception that he had spoken of before. James knew how to navigate the milieu of social niceties that was required of a proper gentleman, but Francis was not as such. He was, first and foremost, a captain, and a captain had duties that Sir John was disregarding, as was his wont when he was in Australia.

“And you, Sir John?” Francis said. “What are you doing at the shops this morning? I was told that you were to spend it inspecting our canned provisions at Goldner’s.”

Sir John bristled at Francis’s tone. The curve of his mouth overturned, as it did at the mere hint of his incompetence. “Jane suggested a walk about as the sun was shining brightly. It rarely is, here in London. I sent a note to the foreman informing him that I will be scheduling my inspection at a later date.”

“You mean he knew that you were coming?”

Sir John furrowed his brows like he thought this a very odd line of inquiry. “Well... yes.” 

Francis grit his teeth and stood at attention. “Some of us may give the benefit of the doubt, sir, but any purveyor ought to know that a signed contract is hardly an assurance that the quality of an order will be fully met. If a supplier is made aware that he is to be observed at a specific period, then he will put his best foot forward and hide his shortcomings, and the inspector will come away thinking that the supplier was perfectly compliant. Inspections should be conducted without warning, and frequently, and had you—”

“What Francis means,” James interjected, “is that I am all too willing to handle the inspections myself, Sir John. I am sure that you have many responsibilities as expedition leader, and I am only too glad to relieve you of this particular task. I daresay it will give you more opportunities to enjoy the fine London weather. Isn’t that right, Francis?”

Francis did not reply immediately, as there was a persistent itch on his back that was surfacing at the most inconvenient time. The waistcoat he had put on that morning was a pale blue linen vest that Ross had insisted he wear to the Ross-Coulman wedding. The tailor had made it too tight, and when Francis moved just so, the maker’s mark in the lining needled at his skin. 

But instead of the usual prickle, the itch was oddly firm, insistent, and Francis soon realized that James had put his hand on Francis’s back. It was as much an attempt at comfort as it was a plea for a clearer head. James made a subtle, up-and-down motion, kneading his palm into Francis’s spine and gently easing the tension out of his posture. Francis did not think it possible, and he was hardly predisposed to entertain such notions, but it felt as if James's hand emitted such an excess of warmth that it permeated through Francis's four layers of clothing and singed his skin. The sensation both steadied him and sent him reeling.

“Yes,” he blurted.

This seemed to be a satisfactory answer, and Sir John and Lady Jane looked properly mollified. “Now if you’ll excuse us,” James announced, “we are to the cobbler’s next. It is a pity we cannot be better acquainted, but these shoemakers adhere to a remarkably strict—”

“Commander.”

James halted mid-sentence and regarded Lady Jane. She was a pleasant enough woman, but there was a lion-like quality to her gaze that made one cautious, as if a false step could send her leaping at one’s throat. “Perhaps we might be better acquainted over luncheon in a week hence,” she ventured. “The day will come when you will be dining with my dear husband everyday, and it would bring me great comfort to know the character of the one whose company and confidence he will keep for the years ahead. John has spoken so warmly of you these past months, but I regret to say that until today, Sophia and I have only known you as a name in the papers. It would be a pleasure to be apprised of the man from his own lips. Will you be amenable to Friday next?”

James seemed to think this a wonderful idea. “I, why indeed, madam,” he said, then glanced at Francis. “We will be glad to go. Won’t we, Francis?”

Francis pressed his lips to a thin line. 

“Dear Francis is invited as well, of course,” Lady Jane added.

Francis merely grunted.

Lady Jane deemed this a perfectly adequate response and clapped her hands together. “Splendid!” she said, then turned to Sophia, who, from the furrow between her eyes, was both surprised and bewildered. “We shall make the arrangements.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Sir John did have a daughter from his first marriage. Not much is known about Eleanor Franklin, except that she and Lady Jane became estranged after Sir John's expedition didn't return.
>   * We don't know if Lady Jane really loved Sir John or if she was more concerned for her legacy, but if Sir John looked anything like Ciaran Hinds in Persuasion (1995), then bad political skills be damned, I'll see you in the berth, sir.
>   * [Sir John when he's done a fuckie wuckie](https://laissezferre.tumblr.com/post/189900124929/theterrorbingo-fill-callous)
>   * We now head from funsies land to feels territory. See you there!
> 



	5. Chapter 5

“So, we are in agreement then,” Francis said, though from the furrow on James’s brow, it was anything but. “Robert Hooker will be the lead surgeon on Erebus.”

“I really do not understand why you are so averse to Doctor Stanley, Francis,” James argued as he sipped his glass of whisky—his third, Francis counted. “He has shown himself to be a very capable surgeon. Rather overeager to turn to the bone saw, I suppose, but he has saved my life once and I would trust him to keep doing so.”

Francis said nothing as he refilled his own glass. After the incident at the tailor’s, they had both decided that they would no longer hold their conferences in public spaces. Better for them to consort in hiding, as if they were criminals, than have another Franklin walk in as Francis tended to James’s mouth. With Francis’s ill luck, the next time would be worse. He was almost certain that, should they not allow for change, Lady Jane would catch them in Hyde Park in the precise moment that James would be standing close to blow a lash from Francis’s eye. 

It still left the question of where they were to convene, seeing as the common space in James’s club teemed with gentlemen and fellow sailors alike, anyone of whom might whisper in Sir John’s ear. It was up to Francis to provide refuge, and he had tiptoed around the subject during breakfast at Eliot Place until Ross had sussed him out and offered his own study. 

“This is your home, Frank. You need not ask for my leave to invite guests,” he said over a spoonful of soft-boiled eggs. Francis could never abide the runny monstrosity. The schlooping sound it made reminded him all too much of bird dung. “The maps in the library are at your disposal,” Ross added, and when Francis thanked him for his generosity, Ross appended with a bit of warning. “Only try not to touch the specimens. I’ve a fear that agitating might hasten their degradation.”

And so Francis and James found themselves deep into their cups, in the library, surrounded by Sir James Clark Ross’s queer collection of jars filled with flora and fauna from the Antarctic deep sea. Francis studied their draft of the muster list while James scribbled furiously on his notebook.

“I’ve already given you McMurdo as your Second,” James said amidst firm scratches of his pencil, “though from his credentials, he ought to be commanding his own ship by now. This Hooker fellow sounds more of a naturalist than a proper surgeon. He would be better equipped to draw sea shells than to tend to an ill sailor.”

“Then we will put Hooker with McDonald, so they may temper each other. Peddie and Goodsir can man Terror.” 

James remained unconvinced. He scowled as he swallowed the remains of his drink and made a few markings on his notebook. 

“I don’t mean to cast doubt on your Stanley,” Francis allayed. “Only that in my last voyage with Ross, I saw how arduous it was for him to be the chief scientist whilst being our captain, and I think a few more science men in our voyage would not go awry. James, what the hell are you doing?”

James looked up and smiled sheepishly, like a boy caught daydreaming in class. He straightened and slid his notebook across the table to Francis, turning it around so he could see clearly. “Dundy and Sara’s commemorative teacup,” he said. “I’m working on their joint coat-of-arms. See the cheetah there? How one of its paws holds a rolling pin?” 

Francis squinted and peered closer. “That’s a cheetah?” he said. “Looks like a malnourished dog to me.”

“Oh Francis, you brute.”

James pouted and made a production of clutching the notebook tightly to his chest, but his offense was countermined by the playful glint in his eyes. Francis could not help but chuckle at the sight. James had always been something of a performer, and while in the beginning this came across to Francis as pompous and misleading, now, he will admit, it was charming. 

Suddenly, James sat up. He cocked his head, listening to something Francis knew not what, then he stood and drew near the window. He opened the double panels with a slight creak, and a distant sea of voices seeped into the room. 

“What’s that?” Francis asked. It sounded like a choir rehearsing.

James looked at him over his shoulder and beamed. “It’s ‘Bridal Chorus’. Wagner. Do you know it?”

Francis stood to join him at the window and listened. Sure enough, there it was, the slow, joyful music that he had heard at Ross’s wedding. Francis smiled at the memory. “I remember the look on Ross on his wedding day, when Ann entered the cathedral,” he related. “This tune began playing, and when he whipped round and saw her, it was as if the last five years slipped away from his face. He looked like a new man.”

James leaned back on the window sill and sighed. The bright moon illuminated his outline as he crossed his arms. “I wonder if I’ll see that same look on Dundy’s face once his time comes. I won’t tease him, mind, but I imagine it would be quite affecting.” He sent a sly glance to Francis. “I have half a mind to invite you to the wedding. With how much you’ve helped me, it seems fair.”

“Won’t it ruin your seating arrangement?” 

“I’m serious, Francis!” James insisted amidst Francis’s silent chuckles. “I cannot thank you enough.” 

Francis only smiled ruefully. He stared out into the night, calling to mind the names of the constellations above London’s rooftops, until the chorus voices drifted into silence.

James nudged his shoulder against Francis’s. “And you?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Why aren’t you married?” James teased, with a grin so wide it made Francis’s heart ache. “Have you no sweetheart hidden away somewhere?”

Francis had developed many phantom pains over the course of his life, as expected when one was committed to the sea since the age of thirteen. A sailor’s years were a series of hurts—the sense of loss at being paid off, the relief of being commissioned again, the resentment from friendships and affairs hastily ended, the loneliness aboard ship, and the pain of coming home to find that everything had changed. Such was Francis’s life, and there was no room for marriage there. 

He marvelled at how an innocent query could still make his heart wring, as if it was only yesterday that Sophia had refused him. He would never marry, Francis knew. The ceremony was as elusive to him as the Northwest Passage itself. Perhaps it was why he had ensconced himself within this humble abode, where he was free to steep in the Rosses’ happiness as he had none for himself.

Something of this must have shown on his expression, because the next thing he knew James had reached for his elbow.

“I do apologize. I—”

“It’s getting late,” Francis said. He moved away from the window, away from James’s warm eyes full of pity, and began cleaning up their papers. “That’s enough work for today, I think.” He cleared the maps and wrenched open the door of the library. The hallway was dim as he stepped out. “You know your way, I suppose. Good night, James.”

“Francis?” James called out. 

“Hmm?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow? At Sir John’s?” 

A pause. 

“Yes, of course. Good night, James.”

“Good night, Francis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * JCR did serve as [Chief Scientist](https://laissezferre.tumblr.com/post/190894267227/a-primer-on-that-handsome-lad-james-clark-ross) during the Antarctica expedition and brought back specimen jars which he intended to draw and analyze after he retired from active service.
>   * We all know that FRMC would never have referred to JCR as “Ross” or anything other than “James dear” but please, I can’t have two Jameses here. As a writer, I can only do so much. The English language is a terror.
>   * Soft-boiled eggs are also a terror don't @ me
>   * Ask me in the comments about my decisions on the muster roll changes, thank
>   * [The OG bridal entrance theme but with lyrics](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5C5FOW2ekHo)
>   * My part of the world is on full lockdown from COVID-19 right now. I hope reading this story gives you a bit of comfort as much as it did to me while writing it. God, I don't know where I'd be mentally if I didn't have this hobby. Wash your hands and take care!
> 



	6. Chapter 6

James Fitzjames prided himself on being an excellent conversationalist. His childhood had been spent engaging in healthy debates on politics and fashion, on foreign policy and gossip. He could charm any officer at the dinner table, from the lowest lieutenant to the First Lord himself, and he could steer the conversation to topics that would render him as a man of great wisdom and experience. But for some reason, here in the lavish dining room of the Franklins’ residence in Mayfair, he only seemed capable of making things worse for Francis.

It had started while James was recounting his presence during the signing of the Treaty of Nanking. It was a reliable story. The violence of his injury could be omitted to suit ladies’ ears, but he was no less gallant with his being chosen amongst many officers to witness the historic event. James had mentioned sitting for the official portrait alongside Dundy when Sir John inquired of the man’s upcoming nuptials.

“Your man Le Vesconte is to be married next month, isn’t he, James? And so near the expedition! One would think that they would wait until we returned, with honours for all and a promotion surely. Would not the lady prefer marrying a commander rather than a lieutenant?”

“Henry has thoroughly discussed it with his intended, sir, and he and the lady are of the opinion that they be married before he sailed. Not because they fear that a calamity would strike us,” James hastily added, “only that they have been engaged for several years now, and would not wish to delay their happiness any longer.”

“That is reasonable, I suppose,” Sir John said, and that was when he put the question to Francis. “Did not Sir James also have a long engagement, Francis? Four years, if I recall correctly.” 

James watched as Francis winced and covered it up with an awkward smile. 

“Yes,” Francis said, then followed with a forced chuckle that made James’s heart ache. “They were engaged before we set sail for the southern regions.”

Last night, James had tossed and turned in his bed, going over how their meeting ended with such haste. They had been getting along swimmingly, if somewhat aided by the liquor cabinet, and then Francis recalled the day of Ross’s wedding. His face had shifted, as if he was illuminated by a light not from the window nor the lamps, but something altogether gentler, warmer. From his close vantage point, James had stood transfixed. 

And then he had asked his foolish question, and it was as if a cruel hand had snuffed out the light, leaving Francis with a woeful expression that tore at James’s insides. He did not look heartbroken, nor desolate, but resigned. 

As he did now.

James straightened in his seat. “I am sorry to talk shop at the table, Sir John, but have you given thought to the muster list I gave you?” 

Sir John perked up and regarded James with an approving gaze. “Indeed I have! James, I must commend you on your choices. Gore and McMurdo have both been to a polar region. And while I do not know Irving, I hear that he has spent some time in Australia, and I would be glad to ruminate with him on happy times past. Now see here, Janie, do you know who will be our surgeon in Erebus—it’s Doctor Hooker!”

At this Lady Jane let out a delighted  _ oh! _ , upon which she began to extoll Hooker’s virtues.

James caught Francis’s eye across the table and gave him a small smile. Francis made to knock down a glass of Allsopp’s but there it was, James saw, a slight curve to his lips.

“... Well?”

“Well? What do you wish me to say, Francis, that you were entirely in the right? Because I have honour enough to admit it.”

The rest of the luncheon went along swimmingly, with Sir John commending the choices for Erebus and Terror’s officers, even for the ones he had yet to meet. When Lady Jane signaled for her special custard cake, James and Francis had both demurred, rather too vehemently from the look on Lady Jane’s face, but they both expressed their most effusive thanks as the luncheon ended.

James and Francis had repaired to the parlour to let the meal settle in their stomachs. Francis twisted round from looking out the window, his familiar blue traveling coat billowing. “I will not lord it over you, don’t worry,” he teased, then grinned. “But I won’t deny deriving some satisfaction from it.” 

“And I won’t blame you if you do,” James said. He stepped closer to Francis’s side, their positions calling to mind the events of last night as they listened to Wagner’s bridal chorus. “My regret is not agreeing with you sooner. I daresay we would already be docking in Stromness had I left all the decisions to you.”

“But that would mean you would miss Le Vesconte’s wedding,” Francis said. His brows rose at a considerable height, a considerable height indeed. “I am a stern captain, James, but I wouldn’t deprive you of the honour of wearing your twenty-eighth commemorative waistcoat.”

This sent James howling. It was deep, belly laugh that made him keel over while clutching at his side. He glanced at a beaming Francis, who was doing that odd laugh of his where his shoulders shook with mirth but no sound came out. 

The parlour filled with their barely repressed chuckles and James had a stray thought: how wonderful it would be to row to Terror at each start of the dog watch and do this. James had so looked forward to the expedition for a multitude of things—to the bergs he would sight and the musk-oxes, and the bite of the cold air as he breathed his morning’s fill—but he had not foreseen himself anticipating this: he and Francis looking out at the stern and bantering, late nights in the Great Cabin reminiscing on past adventures, or hours-long debates on which of the ships could go faster with the engines fully cranked. The expedition itself had changed shape before James’s very eyes, and it was no longer a search for the Northwest Passage.

“Commander Fitzjames?”

They turned to see Lady Jane at the parlour entrance, a shrewd quality to her pleasant bearing that wiped the smile from their faces. “Won’t you stay for tea, Commander? I’ve a special brew that I would like your valued opinion on.”

“Oh,” James straightened. “If Francis wouldn’t mi—”

“Oh, I’m sure Francis has tired of my tea,” Lady Jane said. “He has indulged himself on it many a time whilst we were in Hobart. Wouldn’t you say so, Francis?” 

“Auntie?”

Miss Cracroft surfaced from the hallway, her hair hastily remade but no less polished. “You called for me?” she said. 

Lady Jane took her by the arm and led her to the center of the room. “Sophia dear, why don’t you take the commander to the east drawing room. Your uncle and I will be down shortly. You may show him your paintings.”

This piqued James’s interest. “Are you an artist, Miss Cracroft?” he asked. Miss Cracroft eyed him with a defiant gaze that conveyed that she would not be indulged. “Only as good as any lady forced into the hobby, Commander.”

James smiled, soft and knowing. Miss Cracroft had rarely spoken during their luncheon, but what few she said betrayed a sharp mind with a wit to match. “I dabble in it myself. Mere sketches, I’m afraid.” He grinned and turned to Francis. “Although dear Francis here will tell you that my cheetahs look like—”

“I should go”, Francis announced. James blinked. “Surely you’re not so full as to forego tea?” he pleaded. James moved to place a hand on Francis’s back and on sensing it, Francis stepped away, his lips pressed tight as if he was in pain.

“Francis?”

“I really ought to go,” he croaked. “Sir James will be expecting me. Enjoy the tea,” he said to no one in particular. He gave a quick bow to Lady Jane and Miss Cracroft, a nod to James, and then hurriedly left the parlour. 

When James had gathered enough wits to follow, Francis was already crossing the Franklin threshold and unto the street beyond. The doors began to close, and James tried to peer between the panels to memorize his retreating figure. The last thing he saw before the doors shut was Francis stood on the sidewalk, looking lost, like a captain without his compass. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Gore was indeed an arctic veteran. He sailed on Terror with Sir George Back in 1836-37. The voyage is mentioned by Blanky in episode seven. "In '37 when George Back wrecked it, tugged it home across the Atlantic, she was barely afloat."
>   * Archibald McMurdo was Francis's first lieutenant in Terror during the 1839-43 Antarctic expedition. He had to be sent home during one of the stops due to illness. He would later on lead one of the ships in the rescue expeditions.
>   * Before getting promoted to a lieutenant, Irving spent some time as a sheep farmer in New South Wales, Australia.
>   * Robert Hooker was a naturalist/assistant surgeon in Erebus in the Antarctic expedition. He was Lady Jane's favourite in the entire crew and she sometimes helped him in collecting specimens. The favor was not entirely mutual.
> 



	7. Chapter 7

James had never actually met Sir James and Lady Ann. His comings and goings in Ross’s study had always been at night, and if they were not already abed, then the couple was attending one of the many dinner parties that Lady Ann was still at liberty to attend in her condition. She was a small, sprightly thing, well into her pregnancy and as blooming as desert flowers on a cold Baghdad night, indomitable and beautiful under both sun and stars. Ross looked just like his portrait.

“Commander Fitzjames,” Lady Ann greeted, holding out her hand so James might kiss it. “What a pleasure to finally meet you!” 

Ross welcomed him with slightly less exuberance, but no less sincerity. “It's good to see you, Commander,” he said. “And here I thought something unpleasant had happened. Francis hasn’t spoken of you in weeks.”

This caused James to pause as he was taking his seat. He froze, his backside mere inches from the settee, until he realized how silly he must look, very silly indeed. “I was not aware that Francis spoke of me often,” he said as he perched on the cushion. “All good tales, I hope?”

“Oh, very impressive ones, indeed,” Lady Ann assured him. She gestured to the cup of tea in front of James and waited for him to take a sip before saying, “He said that you made a convincing impersonation of my husband. Might you demonstrate for us one day?”

James sputtered as he struggled to contain the tea within the confines of his mouth. Ross laughed maniacally under Lady Ann’s loving gaze. 

“Madam, I am truly sorry. Francis ought to have explained. I was merely—”

“James dear, are you done with the dailies?”

The next time that James Fitzjames met Francis Crozier was in the parlour of the Ross household, while James was pathetically attempting to recover his dignity, and while Francis was bursting through the doors sporting month-old facial hair. Had the man who walked in not carried Francis’s stride, nor had his lovely eyes, nor was he wearing that light blue morning vest that was rather tight but drew the eye to the fine curve of Francis’s back, James might not have recognized him. His beard was mostly white, but there were tufts of red so out of place that James felt it his honour-bound duty to inspect them closely for authenticity.

“There you are, Frank!” Ross cried out. “Fitzjames here was wondering if you would ever make an appearance.” He walked over to Francis with a genial smile and said, softly, “Perhaps he can bring out some of the old joy in you, hmm?” Then he clapped Francis on the shoulder and left the room.

Lady Ann likewise rose and straightened her skirts. “It was good of you to visit, Commander,” she said. She paused as she came to Francis, then took his hand and held it as something unspoken passed between their gazes. The parlour doors closed behind her with a soft click.

“They seem to have been expecting me,” James said. 

When Francis remained silent, James took the time to observe him properly. The beard was a pleasant surprise, but there were other, smaller changes that someone less initiated to Francis’s quirks would not have noticed. James had always admired how Francis carried himself, commanding in the set of his shoulders, and reserved in the droop of his chin. The sight of him made a man hold his head high, like disappointing Francis would be the worst blunder one could make in life. 

But now Francis looked exhausted, defeated. His face was gaunt and dark circles formed under his eyes, quite a departure from the time James saw him last that it was cause for worry. 

James initially thought that Francis’s hasty departure from the luncheon was caused by the company of Miss Cracroft. There was an uneasy disposition about them while they conversed at the table that James had not been able to parse. But on further recollection of his memories from the day, the two were polite enough to each other, even friendly. There were no ill feelings between them, and they seemed to be amiable, if awkward, in their affections. 

So James had put Francis’s retreat to a discrete case of diarrhea. Such things were truly unfortunate, as James himself knew, and he did not fault Francis at all that he had to rush to the seat of ease, though what was wrong with Sir John’s own water closet, James knew not. But on seeing Francis again, it seemed that his ailment was more serious than a case of loose bowel movement.

“Are you—have—I hope you are well?” James asked.

Francis grunted. It was the kind that James could not read at all. “I have been… indisposed.”

James then realized how ungracious he was being—he had remained seated whilst Francis stood stiffly at parade rest. He relinquished his perch from the settee and approached slowly. “Is it… is it very bad?”

“No, I am well now.”

“... I see.”

It seemed to James that he had lost all power of repartee. Francis had always been sparing with his words, but as their acquaintance grew he had gradually opened up to conversation, at times spending whole afternoons on one area of interest. These clipped answers befuddled James, so he reverted to the subject that Francis was often keen on speaking his mind on, that of the expedition itself.

“They’ve finished reinforcing the ships,” he shared, then beamed to coax a smile out of Francis—it started working recently—but Francis would not meet his eyes. “Trial runs for the engines are scheduled three days hence: Erebus in the morning, then Terror in the afternoon. Won’t you fancy a wager, Francis? We’ll know at last which ship holds better at full speed.”

“Hmm.”

“Do you think you can sail Erebus for a bit?”

At this, Francis finally looked up, and James produced a sheepish smile.

“There’s a slight conundrum, you see. Do you remember that manor in Surrey, with the eccentric owner? Lord Hastings has at long last scheduled an interview with me, and it so happens that it’s on the same day as the trial runs. I know you’ve never manned Erebus, Francis, but she’s the same class and I have full confidence in your abili—”

“I’m sorry, James.” 

James blinked. 

Francis shifted on his feet. “I meant to write you, to do it properly.”

“Do what?”

Francis pulled himself together and stood tall, like he was bracing himself for a wave that was certain to drown his ship. “To tell you that I can no longer assist you with the expedition. You seem to have things well in hand, and with the voyage nearing, you would likely prefer to spend most of your time with... with Sir John. To iron out plans. The preparations could hardly be improved if I impose myself further.” 

James shook his head as Francis made his case. It was a poor one, and one he disagreed with passionately. “That’s not true and I’ve said as much to you. You’re hardly a dead weight, Francis. I wouldn’t have gotten this far without your guidance.”

“I’m sorry, James. I can’t captain Erebus.”

“Francis,” he sighed. “Won’t you please? For me? That interview is the only thing standing in the way of Dundy and Sara’s wedding. If I don’t secure it now, we’ll have to hold it in some hovel, to say nothing of informing the caterer and the vicar and the—”

“Listen, James!” Francis cried. He did not bellow, but it was a near thing, and his volume only grew louder as he spoke. “If anything can be gleaned from here, it is that you brought this on yourself. Flowers and rigging have nothing to do with each other, nor do tins and cakes, yet you insist on handling both! Any captain worth his salt knows that the fitting of a ship requires one’s full attention, and the fact that you are unwilling to do so only proves your ineptitude for command. I tried to help but in truth I shouldn’t have to, and I don’t have to now.”

James blinked furiously as Francis laid out his ineptitude. James did not think that the man could be so riveting, even at his own expense, but soon the meaning of Francis’s words caught up with him and his fury rose. He glared at Francis with such contempt that he could feel heat oozing out of the sockets of his eyes. “So that is what you think of me,” he snarled. “That was your game all along, was it? To blackmail me into allowing you to assist, to gain my confidence until such time that I relied heavily on you and at the crucial moment, pull the rug from under my feet. Well, you’ve done it, sir! I cannot leave Erebus unmanned, which means I cannot have Pendleton Manor.”

“James…”

“‘That poor Fitzjames! He can’t even attend two weddings without losing his head, surely he can’t discern two crates of tins from one!’ I suppose that’s what you’ve been thinking every time I dragged you to some shop, and to think that I only wanted to spend more time with you. Now you must excuse me as I tell my friend that I have failed him and that he will not have the wedding of his dreams after all!”

James stormed past Francis, his tread heavy and damning on the room’s carpet. He gripped the door handle and pulled mightily, but it seemed that the Rosses preferred their doors to have complicated mechanisms, with some hidden notch or latch to press on, because the doors remained firmly closed. James cursed under his breath.

“James—” 

“Miss Cracroft spoke to me, after you left.” 

Francis winced.

James took a deep breath and released it, the anger of the last moments slipping away. He meant it to be a slight, a scathing parting remark, but could not bring himself to follow through. “She apologized for her aunt’s manoeuvring, and wished me well for the expedition. And then she extracted a promise from me, to do my utmost best to look out for—”

“Her uncle, I know. She—”

“For  _ you,  _ Francis,” James said. He slowly turned around and met Francis’s gaze, who looked surprised. “She cares for you, that much is plain, regardless of the nature of your falling out. I wish… I wish you’d told me instead of running off like that. I wouldn’t have done that to you, Francis. I would have stood by you. Truly. I—” 

James huffed. He shook his head once, bitter and crestfallen. “I suppose if anything has been proven now, it is that you would not do the same for me.”

And with that, James Fitzjames departed from Eliot Place. He was released from Francis Crozier, and though this would have once pleased him immensely, now he felt as if he was in Zhenjiang once more. This time the bullet did not pass through his arms, but instead flew straight and true, right to his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, how's everyone holding up? Hmm, what trivia to say... oh, yes. They did do trial runs for the ships to check how the steam engines performed. It took three tries before the results were pronounced satisfactory.


	8. Chapter 8

It took a week of heavy drinking and singing shanties at the top of his lungs before James Fitzjames saw fit to rejoin civilized society again. He had resurfaced briefly for the trial runs, where he stared most morosely across the ships to where Francis stood conferring with Archibald McMurdo at the stern. Francis still looked gaunt, but the beard had been shaved off and James mourned it like a fallen messmate. James snapped his spyglass closed at the sight of Francis sharing a laugh with McMurdo, but the image had seared into his memory and propelled him into a second week of truly hedonistic drinking.

It was only a matter of time until his stocks ran low. And so it was that James Fitzjames was emerging from the shop that sold the single malt, South Baloch whisky that Francis so favoured when he ran into an old friend.

“Sir James?”

The address halted James’s steps and he turned to the direction of a tall, stocky woman carrying a pair of large baskets in her arms. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Madam… Penguins.”

“It’s Pennings, sir. Janie Pennings, at your service.”

“Mrs. Pennings. Of course.” 

Mrs. Pennings smiled and did a quick curtsy befitting to a member of the peerage. This did nothing but mortify him. 

“Did you visit the shops, Sir James?” Mrs. Pennings eyed the sack that James was holding. “You’re a queer one, aren’t you, sir? Gentlemen I know have servants do their sundries.”

“Ah, no, this is…” James tried to shove the sack behind him, but the motion merely caused the bottles to clink together loudly, very loudly indeed. 

At the sound, Mrs. Pennings’s eyes widened in understanding. “Ah, I see now, sir! Gentlemen with taste such as yours would want to buy their own liquor themselves. My Jack wrote to me that his captain preferred single malt whisky from somewhere in the Highlands. Reminds him of his wife, he says. I suppose that’s something like what you’ve got there, sir.”

This assumption was too near the truth that James felt more pathetic than ever. He considered curling into a ball right there on the cobblestones when Mrs. Pennings rolled her left shoulder and winced.

“What have you got there then, madam? They seem as heavy as bottles.” Mrs. Pennings was holding a large basket in each arm, with a piece of cloth covering their contents. At James’s query, she put one of the baskets down and lifted the cloth from the other.

“It’s food tins, sir. Freshly sealed, but I think these are a tad shoddy. Mr. Pennings told me to cook them up this evening because they were bound to spoil.”

James peered closer and lifted a tin from the basket. It looked similar to the tins that they had stocked in Erebus and Terror, if a little bloated, with the same red paint and the same seal from Goldner’s Patent. “Shoddy, you say?”

“Aye, Sir James. Mr. Pennings works as a cart driver and they’ve been carrying these up to Woolwich for the past month or so. Some of them have gone all swollen like the ones I’ve got here, because they’ve made them shoddy, so the foremen have those taken out and give it to anyone who wants them. They’re not strict about it, though, sir, which bothers Mr. Pennings, because they only take out the bad bits on the top of the crates.”

James was aware that it was of the utmost importance that a junior officer of the Royal Navy masquerading as a knighted gentleman ought to be listening carefully to the innocent civilian he was currently duping. But truthfully, his head was reeling. He put his hands firmly on Mrs. Pennings’s shoulders to steady himself.

“Mrs. Pennings,” he said. “Mrs. Janie Pennings.”

“Sir?”

“Would you know where your husband’s cart is at this very moment?”

“Why, yes, sir.”

“Is it currently unloading provisions at slots 12th and 13th at Woolwich Dockyard?” 

“Why, no, sir.”

“Huh?”

“It’s right there, sir.”

Mrs. Pennings pointed to a corner of the street where a circus troupe was gathering a crowd and, sure enough, there it was, where it had been all the while.

“And there’s Mr. Pennings, sir, having a bit of snuff.”

After James had successfully convinced Mr. Pennings to drive his wagon to Whitehall in exchange for three full bottles of single malt South Baloch whisky, he had only enough time to call for a newsboy and have him send two messages: one to Sir John, and one to Francis. Then he waved for a passing hansom and made to catch up with the Goldner’s cart.

When Sir John and Francis arrived, almost simultaneously, they conferred in the anteroom of the First Lord of the Admiralty’s office.

“James.”

“Sir John.”

“... James.”

“... Francis.”

“Sir John.”

“Francis.”

After this most entertaining ceremony, Sir John demanded to know what on earth was going on.

“What on earth is going on?” he said. “Jane is upset that I’m to miss her lamb roast. Now, James, I think highly of you and do not presume that you would send such an urgent note without good reason.”

James nodded. “A very good reason, Sir John.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and produced two cans. The first one was a perfectly fine sample, its label properly glued and the soldering intact. The second was the same swollen can that James had seen in Mrs. Pennings’ basket. “Some of the tins that we are loading have swollen,” he said. “If we were to open them now, I’d wager that the food inside has rotted, or nearly. Either the food has been ill-prepared, or these tins are improperly sealed.”

A heavy silence, not unlike the time when James had hidden in a closet to accost his messmate with pillows, descended on them.

“How many of the tins are in this state?” Francis said.

“I can’t be sure, but of the small sample I’ve had parked in the steps of this very building, a little less than a quarter have some form of deformity. And even if the remaining three-fourths seem intact, who is to say that they will not exhibit identical symptoms after we are a month into the voyage?”

They both looked to Sir John, who had remained silent. “Does the Admiralty know about this?” he asked. “Not yet, sir. But I’ve inquired inside and Lord Haddington is in his office. You may wish to take it up with him at once.” 

Sir John nodded gravely and gestured for James to give him the two tins. “Well done, James. Well done. To think that we would have sailed while carrying these vats of poison…” He shook his head. “I will bring forward your vigilance to the Admiralty Board itself. You deserve to be recognized for your assiduity, and I will see that it gets to the right ears.”

“If I may, Sir John,” James said. “I would never have thought to examine the tins were it not for Captain Crozier.” Sir John’s brows rose to his receding hairline. “It was Francis’s idea to inspect the tin production. I gave it no heed then, but since the opportunity arose to see the cans for myself, I remembered our conversation and acted on his advice. 

“The captain was instrumental in the timely progress of the preparation for the ships, and I daresay, more than half those names in the muster list are his recommendation. He has been—” James swallowed—“invaluable to me, to how I’ve made decisions concerning the expedition, and it would be folly to only acknowledge myself in its early success since Francis was so much a part of it.” 

James thought he could hear a penny drop, though that was likely impossible as the First Lord’s anteroom had truly superior carpeting.

“I shall be sure to mention it then,” Sir John said. He approached the doors of Lord Haddington’s office before turning around quickly. “Well done... both of you.”

“Well,” Francis said when the doors closed behind Sir John, “you didn’t have to do that,” to which James replied, “I should have done it sooner.”

Francis shook his head. “No, no, that was part of the arrangement, wasn’t it? That we both kept our mouths shut. So I suppose I must thank you.” Francis peered out the window, to where the ominous wagon of Goldner’s tins was parked in front of the Admiralty building. The cart driver was cheerfully smoking his tobacco as a rear admiral leered at him. “You did good work here, James. You really did.” He noticed James grinning. “What is it?”

“Would you believe me if I told you that this is all thanks to Madam Penguin?”

“Who?”

James motioned for them to sit at the divan, and it was an excellent divan indeed, and then he related the entire saga of the morning, from his quick whisky run, to learning Mrs. Pennings’ real name, to discovering the insidious source of her dinners of late. “And so I bribed Mr. Pennings with liquor. Mind you, it was a great loss. I had been so looking forward to finishing it in one day.”

Francis’s face fell.

“I must apologize to you, James,” he said. “I won’t claim to be the reason for your imbibing, but for what it’s worth, I am sorry.” Francis sat straight and curled his fists on his lap, like a schoolboy waiting outside the headmaster’s room. James longed to reach for him. “I said some very vicious things to you when you visited. False things, I hope you knew that. You are an excellent officer and a generous mate, and Le Vesconte could not have wished for better. My deepest regret is that I abandoned you when you needed me most, and, while as your senior officer that is deplorable, as your friend, that’s, that is...”

Francis wavered and turned away.

“Francis… did you just call yourself my friend?”

Francis spluttered and made to retract but James finally reached out and put a hand over his.

“Because you are.” James gave his hand a comforting squeeze. “You are…. Thank you. And I am sorry as well. I may have put words in your mouth which were far from your intention.”

Francis gave him a tentative smile.

“And you’re still invited to the wedding, of course,” James said. “My cousin Will has offered to host it at his townhouse in Brighton. It will be a small affair, but Dundy and Sara don’t really mind. I suppose it was only my own frivolity behind my desire to have everything so spectacular, when all the couple in question cared about was whom they would actually marry.”

Francis cleared his throat. “About that…”

He produced a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket and passed it to James, who opened it to reveal a schedule for an appointment on the morning of the 25th of April. “Lord Hastings still wants to meet you,” Francis said, “as well as Le Vesconte and his lady, but he assured me that May 7th is reserved for their wedding.”

James stared at the piece of paper, his jaw slack. He was aware that this looked most unflattering, but to his credit, his mental faculties were not wholly present. “How?” he asked.

“Well, you mentioned Lord Hastings and I couldn’t help but think that I’d heard his name from somewhere, so I inquired with Ross what he knew of his lordship, and then he inquired with Ann as she knew more regarding these matters. James, do you know who Lord Hastings is?”

James was at a loss. “Aside from the Marquess of Hastings? I do not know what other titles he holds.”

“James, the Marquesses of Hastings are also the Earls of Moira.”

James blinked. It seemed to him that time itself had stopped, that no sound could be heard but the scratch of a pen from the hallway beyond.

“Francis, do you mean—do you mean to tell me that you have been Lord Hastings all along!” 

“Don’t be daft, of course not!,” Francis hissed, incredulous. “But it turns out that we have met before, back when my father would force me to accompany him to visit his sponsors. Or so his lordship says. He claims that we met once in his father’s library and spent an hour going over maps, and that I would have gone off with his father’s astrolabe had he not reminded me that I’d stuck it in my pocket. I have no memory of this, James, and really, I would have challenged him had I no request to make. And then, he chided me on a supposed inconsistency in Ross’s initial Antarctica report, particularly the location of Wilkes Land, and really, James, I would have thrown a glove right then and there was I not about to appeal to his lordship’s gen—” 

James Fitzjames would not consider himself an affectionate man, maybe to a few intimates, to Will and Charlewood and Dundy. He prided himself on being personable, equally congenial to fellow officers and crew, but he did not indulge in warm displays of feeling. James reserved that privilege to the few who had earned his absolute confidence, to those whom he would lay down his life for in a heartbeat.

When James Fitzjames finally embraced Francis Crozier, it was like the sensation of a hundred glasses of single malt whisky pouring down his throat and spreading to his every limb. Francis was warm, so warm. James found himself muttering “Thank you, thank you” and then “Francis, Francis” as his arms wrung tighter around Francis’s shoulders.

He felt Francis’s hand slowly climb to the back of his neck, anchoring him and keeping him safe, while another slid gently up and down his back. He could not attest to the state of their legs, but their bodies pressed together, and James felt Francis’s breath against his cheeks, such a vague semblance of a kiss that it drove James mad. 

Francis made to move away, and James did not hold his whine of disappointment. He chuckled. “Have pity, James. My hip can’t take this much twisting.”

Reluctantly, James eased himself from the embrace. He loosened his arms around Francis’s shoulders and shifted to pull away when Francis caught his wrist. He seemed uncertain at first, not quite sure how to proceed, then Francis ducked his head and pressed a soft kiss right to the jut of James’s thumb.

It would be foolish to say that James gasped, as he was not a maiden quivering under her stays, but as there was no other word to describe the intake of breath he made which immediately caught in his throat, then there is no choice but to say that James gasped.

They stayed that way for a moment, Francis with his eyes closed as James sat transfixed, taking in every detail lest this all turn out to be one of his dreams. Their heads bent together, their bodies forming a private alcove of their own making. A few moments passed, and Francis relented to hold James’s hands instead, his thumbs tracing across James’s knuckles. “I have wanted to hold your hand like this for a long time now,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Since when?”

Francis’s lips curved into a smirk. “Since you took a bit of your kit off in front of me.”

“Francis!” James keened.

“Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t sleep for a good few days after that.”

James ran his palm along Francis’s cheek, feeling for any trace of the coarse hairs that he had so longed to touch. “Is this why you were so upset? That day at the Franklins.”

Francis smiled wryly. “I didn’t think I stood a chance,” he said. “She is… a remarkable woman. How was I to compete with that?”

“Oh,” James sighed, so moved that all he could do was hide his face in Francis’s shoulder and tug at the lapel of his waistcoat. He felt his heart close to bursting. “Oh, you dear man.”

Suddenly the door to Lord Haddington’s office opened, and Francis and James barely had time to break apart and stand at attention before Sir John strode out, his forehead marred with sweat. His grip loosened and the tins dropped to the floor, their weight making a series of muffled thuds against the carpet.

And then he fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * This fic's premise: The Franklin expedition is saved by (rolls wheel) making one of its officers (rolls wheel) a wedding planner. Seems legit.
>   * I researched way too much into the earls of Moira to make this reveal.
>   * One of the (few) mistakes that James Clark Ross made in his Antarctica findings is declaring that Wilkes Land did not exist. Wilkes Land was discovered by his rival explorer, the American, Charles Wilkes. Wilkes had written about a series of mountains in Antarctica that he named Wilkes Land, but made an error in its coordinates, so when JCR deigned to stop by, he found nothing but empty sea. Wilkes Land did very much exist, but it was a few miles off.
>   * There was no kissing whatsoever in the og draft of this fic, and on further rewrites, even I was suffering from the yearning. This is my very small accommodation.
> 



	9. Chapter 9

James Fitzjames took the greatest pleasure in a job well done. He was a man of many talents, and he considered it a moral obligation to use his natural aptitudes in service of the good people whom he was fortunate enough to call his friends, not the least of which were Lieutenant Henry T. D. Le Vesconte and his new wife Mrs. Sara Le Vesconte. 

After the ceremony in Guildford Cathedral, the guests had ridden up to Pendleton Manor, where the newly wedded welcomed them under an arch of pink honeysuckles. Music played as friends and family found their places in the array of tables, the centrepieces prettily adorned with dahlias and painted candles.

James observed the pleasant scene with a smile, occasionally giving the band a satisfied nod when they played a piece that would be considered bawdy in less formal occasions. At the sound of his name being called, James turned and gave Dundy a warm embrace, then pressed a quick kiss to Sara’s hand. “You look resplendent!” he said, and Sara rewarded him with a delighted beam. 

“You’re a wonder, James,” she sighed, still in awe. Her ruddy cheeks glowed with happiness. “Dear Henry had kept reassuring me that we were not making too much of an imposition on you, but this,” she gestured to the bustle around them, “this is lovelier than I could have ever imagined.” 

“It is a pity Sir John could not be here,” Dundy added somberly. 

Sir John’s demise was a shock to them all. In the quarter of an hour that James and Francis had been whispering sickeningly sweet nothings to each other, Sir John had seen his career crumbling before his very eyes. Lord Haddington had decided that with the tins likely contaminated, the entire expedition was to be postponed until a new, suitable contractor was found. The process, along with the wait for a favourable season, was likely to take a year, and his lordship had expressed that by the time the voyage was ready, Sir John would be sixty years of age, and unlikely to be appointed to the expedition. This upsetting news caused Sir John to expire of apoplexy on Lord Haddington’s carpet.

James put a hand on Dundy’s shoulder and squeezed. “He’d said such kind words about your nuptials,” James said, remembering that disastrous luncheon at the Franklins. “I’m certain he would have been happy for you both.”

“We have no lack of honoured guests, though.” Dundy cocked his head towards the refreshments table, where Francis and Lord Hastings—that is, the current Marquess of Hastings, Earl of Moira, and definitely not Francis—were conferring most animatedly. “His lordship has gotten along quickly with the captain. A consequence of his age perhaps?”

“Lord Hastings is not so old, Dundy. He’s younger than Francis.”

“Aye, and you’ve taken well notice of Captain Crozier’s age, have you?” 

James quirked his brow to a considerable height, a considerable height indeed. “Rightly so, Lieutenant. I am his Second, and I share his confidence in all things.”

“Sure, James,” Dundy said, only to be pulled by Sara towards a distant aunt she had not seen in years.

“Lord Hastings asked me if our attires are meant to match.”

James whipped round to see Francis at his side, a soft smile on his face. “A keen observer, his lordship,” James said.

James’s and Francis’s waistcoats were indeed meant to match. The tailors at Stevens & Sons Bespoke Tailors thought it an odd request to fashion a waistcoat for a client at such short notice, but it was by some fortune that they had a ready item at hand, with roughly Francis’s measurements and in the same pattern and embroidery as James’s chosen red number, but in blue.

“Can’t I just repeat what I wore in Ross’s wedding?” Francis had asked. “I thought you liked how it fit me.”

“And have each and every one of Sara’s distant aunts bite their lip at the sight of your waistline? I think not, darling. Now, wear this before I strike your name from the guest list.” And that had been the end of that line of inquiry.

James asked, “What were you discussing with his lordship that had him nodding his head so vigorously?”

“Oh, erm, something about crop rotation.”

“Oh?”

Francis grunted. It was a particularly difficult grunt, but the slight inflection at the end called to James’s mind something like ‘Don’t judge me, James. You have your wedding planning, and I have my farming.’ 

James hummed as he considered this new discovery. “Should we look into purchasing property in Kent, while the prices are low?”

“Whatever for?”

“What do you think, man? For...” Here James gestured vaguely, the motion of his palm encompassing both of them, everything in between, and everything that lay ahead. “For _after._ ” 

Francis was about to prod further when Lady Ann came up to them with Ross in tow.

“You look sublime, Frank dear,” she said. “And you as well, Commander. I have heard tell from the bride that this is all your doing. You have my utmost admiration.”

James pressed a kiss to the hand she offered. “Thank you, madam.”

“Though I think my Ann is less impressed with how you have stolen her beloved lodger,” Ross said.

James saw the redness creeping behind Francis’s ears, and he could feel his own doing the same.

“Thot dear,” Francis allayed her, though it was clear that Ross was only teasing. 

“I can assure you, madam, that Francis went with not an ounce of coercion,” James said. “When I mentioned to him that I have been looking for someone to share my rooms with since January, seeing as my cousin had married and moved to his own abode, he gladly offered to join me. Peckham is no Mayfair, but it is still London after all, and it is a relief to my pockets. I must say, Francis is a considerate housemate.”

Lady Ann granted him a gracious smile. “My James jests, of course. But do you know what would improve my spirits immensely, Commander?” She pulled James gently to the side and from the swirl of her skirts, produced a small plate with a slice of lemon cake. “It is if you shared with me the name of the shop that you commissioned for this extraordinary lemon cake. I’m afraid I might begin craving it in the odd hours of the morning, and it would be prudent to know its name now so I may save my dear husband from much tearing at his hair later.” 

A loud guffaw turned their attention to a laughing Ross, with Francis at his side and chuckling at some trifling joke. Ross’s hair curtained over his face as he leaned to whisper at Francis’s ear. “He has glorious hair,” Ann said, most wistfully. “I’m sure you understand.”

James could only grin. “With pleasure, madam. I can introduce you to the proprietress herself on this very day. Only—” he gave a sheepish smile—“pray pretend to be my wife while I am doing so.”

Lady Ann raised her brows curiously, but soon recovered, as if this was not the most unusual request she had ever received.

A twinkling chime floated through the garden, the distinct sound made by tapping cutlery against glass. Dundy rose to address the gathering crowd and the guests raised their glasses to toast. From their spot near the hedges, James raised his own.

“Will you not go around?” Francis said. “Find some better company to cheer you up.”

James Fitzjames was a natural bon vivant. He thrived within the ranks of like-minded people who easily attuned to his stories and showmanship. But for some reason, on this second day of the second week of May 1845, James merely stood on the sidelines and slipped his hand beneath Francis’s jacket. He pressed against Francis’s waistcoat and let his palm linger there, warm and constant. 

“Francis dear,” he said. “Rest assured that my current company makes me very happy, very happy indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they lived. God, they _lived._
> 
> Aaaand that's it! Thank you so much for tuning into this fic and leaving your comments--it really means a lot to me!! Thank you again to icicaille for helping me with fic development and for fixing my prepositions (honestly, english w h a t ). This is my longest fic yet, and I'm very happy with how it turned out. This fic taught me a lot about comedy and flow and consistency and tbh I'm not sure if I can churn anything like it in the near future.
> 
> Toss a comment to your fanfic writer. Thank you and stay safe!!


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